


A Malfoy Always Pays His Debts

by Candamira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abduction, Angst, Community: hd_owlpost, H/D Owlpost Holiday Fest, HP: EWE, Happy Ending, Head Auror Harry Potter, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Not Epilogue Compliant, Off-Screen Minor Original Character Death, Post-War, Potions Abuse, Seer Draco, Slow Build, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira
Summary: I owe Potter and a Malfoy always pays his debts. Even when doing so comes at a high price.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JosephineStone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosephineStone/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, dear Josephinestone! ♥ I hope this story takes you away from reality on an exciting and suspenseful journey. Special thanks to the mods, Vaysh and Kitty_fic, for running this wonderful fest and to my ace alphas and betas, Nia_Kantorka, germankitty and KittyAugust for their invaluable help.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

My world is a green and golden swirl. I'm flying, lighter than the wind stealing breathless laughter from my lips. Mother's eyes, blue like the sky, and the firm grip of her hands around my torso, are my only fixpoints. She whirls me around and around, and then … nothing. 

I open my eyes. It's my earliest memory, a mere conglomeration of emotions, sounds and blurry images – only a fragment of the scene taking place in the life-sized photograph in front of me, where a new loop is starting over.

Mother, forever young and beautiful, doesn't notice me. She's crouching, her arms open wide, and a small boy with hair bleached white by the sun and eyes as grey as a November morning runs towards her. It's four-year-old me, and he jumps into her embrace, full of trust and unaware of the possibility she might fail at catching him. Mother snatches the squeaking bundle of energy out of the air and whirls him around, encased in a halo of silver-blond hair. Their laughter floods the corridor and ripples down the stairs, leaving me run aground on reality.

I stare at the picture until my eyes hurt as much as my heart and all I see are splodges and smudges. Impossible I ever squeaked so loud with joy, or that I once had such blind and complete faith in someone. 

I taste salt on my lips, and hastily blink the tears away. I'm jealous of my little self who lives in this perfect moment. I throw a last glance at the lush green of Mother's garden and the broad trunk of the English elm. Golden speckles filter through the canopy and dance on our smiling faces. This photo is the only thing I thank my father for. One cheerful scene, caught in bright colours, among the long rows of dark oils from which my ancestors glare at me. 

They hate me for leaving the place to rot, and they're right – it's a shame what's becoming of the Manor. Decay is visible in the blind mirrors, the crumbling moulding and the crystals missing from once pristine chandeliers. Not to mention the mouse droppings in the corners. Like myself, the place I grew up in is slowly turning into a ruin.

I shiver in the frosty draught sweeping in through broken windows, floundering like the blood-red autumn leaves it chases down the corridor. 

More memories of the past, the ones I dread, conquer the green and golden one. They never let me forget, much less find peace. Whipped up by my sore conscience, they smother any other thoughts until all that's left are screams and curses, slit nostrils and red eyes. 

I tried. I fought them and clung to lush green and laughter as long as possible, but now I need more. I need my evening dose of potions.

I run – the house is huge and it's a long way to my bedroom. The windows I pass are grimy, painted grey by nightfall, and darkness grows in the corners. I reach my door, panting from fear and exhaustion. Once inside, I slam it shut in my haste. The bang is swallowed by a silence so absolute I doubt I ever heard it. It doesn't matter, nor that my bed is a mess of sheets and pillows. I only have eyes for the two bottles on my nightstand anyway.

I grab the Forgetfulness Potion and take a long drink. The memories wither and fade away, and I put the bottle down. Yet my pulse keeps thundering. My body screams at me to run, to hide, or to just do whatever else may be necessary to escape a danger I've forgotten. I long for tranquility, and when the light of the rising moon turns the the second potion into liquid silver, I surrender. The bottle rim is a cool, reassuring pressure against my lips as I gulp down the Draught of Peace. 

I crawl between the sheets and close my eyes.

\-----

_A child is crying, and I follow the desperate sobs as fast as possible. I'm flying, weightless and faster than the wind. Little thatched cottages, the station at the lake, and the towers of Hogwarts rising in the distance – Hogsmeade. I slow down and float through the narrow streets._

_The sobs fade to barely audible snivelling as I pass Zonko's and the Three Broomsticks, and then there is only one place left to look for the poor child. The Shrieking Shack. When I was a Hogwarts student visiting it by night was a test of courage, passed by only the bravest few. How much more terrifying it must be for a much younger child!_

_Even when the Shrieking Shack is quiet, it's not silent. The old wood creaks, and the wind howls around the house and rattles the shutters as if ghosts are trying to escape. The child stops crying, and I hope for the best – that it has fallen asleep from exhaustion – though I expect the worst._

_I find a little girl in a wooden shed behind the Shrieking Shack. She has curled up in one of the corners facing the entrance, and doesn't wake up when I sit down beside her. It's dark in here, and cold. Though the little one is dressed appropriately for a crisp autumn day, her jacket is not warm enough for the cold of night. Her face is pale, almost translucent, and her lips have turned a blueish shade. Beneath her chin, her hands hold on tight to a thin golden chain. I imagine her clasping a pendant, a gift from her mother for her fourth or fifth birthday, as the girl can't be much older._

_The only thing I can do is stay and hope for her to survive the night. She is a sweet thing; blonde curls spring up from underneath her hat and her nose is dusted with freckles. Just when I'm pulled away, her hands fall aside. The pendant is unusual for such a small girl, it looks like a wedding ring._

_Outside, I catch a last glimpse of the hut. The rough-and-ready build makes it look old, but the wood smells fresh and whoever built it had given it a lot of thought. It's hidden behind the Shack, in the shadow of a big tree. Even if someone saw it, nobody would give an old hut a second glance. And any sounds the girl makes would be shrugged off as typical for the Shrieking Shack._

\-----

I wake up freezing; maintaining a fire in the grate is too much bother. I'm tangled up in the sheets, they wound around my legs while my upper body is stiff from the cold. I pull the sheets up to my chin, and again I see the ring falling from the girl's hands. All these details scare me. They give my dreams a frighteningly realistic note.

I rifle through my wardrobe in search of my cloak. The cold has taken over the Manor, entering unhindered through chimneys and cracked windows. It was a mistake to set the house-elves free. The Manor needs them; I don't care enough to cast any Cleaning or Repairing Spells. Not as long as my thoughts roam around in my head like bludgers, fast and chaotic, and causing pain is their only purpose.

I can't stand my own company, I can't stop thinking about the little girl. I've dreamt of hidden, locked-up children before. The first two times I found them in time to convey a bit of comfort until I was pulled back into my body. Never have I been of real help, my insubstantial fingers couldn't free them of their bonds or gags. Neither was I able to open locked doors or trapdoors. I'm as useless in my dreams as I'm in my life, and I suspect they are another way of my sore conscience to show me I'm caught in my past forever and that there's nothing I can do about it.

Nothing draws my attention or distracts me, and not even my roaming through the rooms and staircases eases my inner strife. The house is too quiet, the silence too loud. It drones in my ears, but I need real noise to drown the memories.

The sun sinks onto the ragged blade of the horizon and bleeds across the sky. Early evening, time to call it a day and have a drink at the pub. Instead of potions I'll have Ogden's tonight and let people's waffle wash over me. It'll take with it my sorrows, and fill my head with wonderfully useless information.

A minimum of disguise will do; the world has almost forgotten about me in the years since the war. On the day of the trials, people wanted me to be sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban, and were furious when I was acquitted. Wands were drawn and unspoken curses lingered on the tips of people's tongues – I was in fear of my life.

Potter saved me. Again. He stood up and dragged me out of the room, and in the Atrium he waited in front of the Floo until the green flames roared up around me. I suppose life has been good to him since. From my occasional excursions to the Three Broomsticks or the Leaky Cauldron, I know he was promoted to Head Auror last year.

I so rarely use my wand that it's a stranger to my hand when I cast a glamour to change my hair from fair to black, and then another to turn my grey eyes brown. The man in the mirror looking back at me could use a visit to the hairdresser's, but I don't care for such vanities anymore. I comb my fingers through my hair and tie it in a ponytail with the leather band I always wear around my wrist. If it weren't for my extreme pallor and the shadows beneath my eyes, I'd say I look quite decent.

\-----

Clouds of smoke hover over the tables in the Three Broomsticks, and waves of noise sweep over me. I weave through the mass of sweaty bodies and order a glass of Ogden's as soon as I find a free stool at the bar. A few sips, and chatter and laughter drown out the Dark Lord's whispered curses resounding in my head. I nurse my drink, content to just sit and breathe.

Two men, whose cloaks still exude cold from the night outside, barge in between me and the guests on the stools beside me. I jerk, but they just order hot Butterbeers in voices used to giving orders.

One glance at their faces, and neither I nor my neighbours dare to complain about the rude treatment. Their elbows dig into my upper arms and I slide forward on my stool until I sit hunched over my glass. Somehow, they take this as an invitation to lean toward each other behind my back, balancing foaming tankards on the backrest of my seat.

"This case is a nightmare," the one to my left says. "It's days like these that make me question my choice of career. I always thought it would be glorious to be an Auror, now I only find it depressing. I mean, children keep getting abducted and dying, and we're not making the slightest progress!"

"I've seen my share, but the little girl today broke my heart. Frozen to death, alone in a hut, in darkness …" The other man shudders, and hot droplets of Butterbeer land on my right shoulder. I shudder, too – he describes my dream in too much detail for mere accidental concurrence. 

"Don't remind me. Did you see the mother when they brought her in to identify the body? As if she'd been kissed by a Dementor." An empty tankard is bumped down on the bar an inch from my left elbow.

"Another one!" 

The barkeeper hurries to fill it up again.

"What would you look like if your husband was killed during an Obliviator operation and only a year later your child was abducted and left to die without reason? There wasn't even a ransom demand! Fill up!" The latter is directed at the barkeeper, and though I was expecting it, I flinch as the second empty tankard hits the bar.

The Auror at my left takes a healthy swig and wipes his mouth. "She said she gave her daughter the chain with her husband's wedding ring as a lucky charm."

"Yeah, much luck did it bring her. Anyway. We did our best. I've read the case files so often, I know them by heart. We followed every single lead, not our fault they all fizzled out."

"Be glad you were with Granger for debriefing when Potter lost it at the press conference. He promised the public we'd hunt the bastard down before he hurts another child. And then we were all ordered into his office and told we'd get fired if he has to admit to the press once more that the fucker has given us the runaround again."

They leave and I stay, framed by their tankards. My dreams. No wonder they are so realistic.

I don't dream. I _see_.

\-----

_I'm flying, lighter and faster than the wind. I follow the weeping of a child, and as soon as I know where he or she is held captive, I'll tell the Aurors. I'm excited, almost euphoric at the prospect of making myself useful._

_Even from high above, I recognise Diagon Alley immediately and drop level with the shop windows. Madam Malkin's and Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor rush by in a blur, then Gringotts' impressive front looms up before me and I turn left into Knockturn Alley._

_The crying comes from a house on the right side of the alley. Dark windows are partially covered by shutters dangling from broken hinges, and the narrow building is leaning heavily against Borgin & Burkes. Again, a perfect place to hide an abduction victim. In Knockturn Alley, people keep their collars up and their eyes to the ground. And their mouths shut._

_In the cellar of the house a little boy is locked up in a wooden cage just big enough for him to lie down. A candle stump on top of the cage is nearly burnt down, though the flame flickers merrily. The boy reaches out for me the moment I enter his cage. He senses my presence, they all do. I'm incorporeal, yet he snuggles into my embrace and falls asleep as if I were the softest cushion._

_I hurry to fly back. My body is entangled in the sheets as always. I must wake up. Immediately. Now._ Now!

I open my eyes.

\-----

My euphoria has turned into depression, and it's entirely my own fault. I should have known the Aurors wouldn't believe me. The looks they exchanged when I said my name spoke volumes. _Death Eater. Potions Addict. Strange recluse. Not credible. Wants to throw his weight around._ They didn't even try to hide their disgust.

I had hoped they would listen to me for the sake of the children, but they only gave me a form to fill out and shoved me out of the office. I asked them to get Potter; no matter our history, he would have listened to me. They laughed at my request and slammed the door in my face.

\-----

From the drawing room windows I spot Mother's old eagle owl. Salazar is sitting asleep on a leafless branch of the English elm shadowing the patio. I envy him his peaceful sleep, though it's a good thing he's well rested. It's a long flight to London.

I sit down at Mother's desk and write a letter to Potter. The Aurors in the Three Broomsticks had said he was under enormous pressure from the press and the public. I hope he's desperate enough to react to an anonymous tip and send an Auror squad to the house in Knockturn Alley.

Salazar leans heavily into me as he lifts a leg. He's an old chap now, but he's still a great hunter, as the mice in the gardens can attest. I attach my message and stroke his head.

"Good boy. Bring this to Mr Potter in the Auror department."

He wiggles his brow feathers at me, soars and hoots a good-bye. While he flies to the Ministry, I'll make a visit to Knockturn Alley and do my best to free the boy. Whether the Aurors come or not, he's running out of time.

\-----

The abductor must feel safe, because when I grab the doorknob and push, the door swings open on oiled hinges and I nearly fall into the house. Utter silence greets me, and an icy fist clenches around my heart. I pray it's not too late, then pull my wand and enter the corridor in search for the trapdoor to the cellar.

I try a _Finite Incantatem_ , and as soon as I've spoken the last syllable, a lazily cast Disillusionment Charm fades and reveals what I am looking for. I grasp the cast iron ring and pull. The trapdoor is far heavier than expected and I groan with the exertion. Just when I'm halfway done, the front door bursts into pieces. I jump and the ring slips from my hand.

" _Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!_ " 

The Aurors storming the house are black silhouettes against the daylight flooding in through the hole where the door has been. My wand is drawn from its sheath in the seam of my cloak and hurtles towards them. Thin ropes coil themselves around me. Thank goodness the spell doesn't include gagging.

"The boy is down there," I say. "Please, hurry. He's afraid of the dark and locked up in a cage." 

None of the four wizards who point their wands at me is Potter, and everybody else is too prejudiced to believe my side of the story. So I don't waste energy telling them it's not what it looks like. They grin at each other in triumph, and already see glowing decorations, maybe even Orders of Merlin in their future. They want me to be the abductor, whatever explanation I'd give for my presence would be shrugged off as the desperate attempt to lie my way out of a dicey situation.

\-----

Everything is grey in here. And the outside world behind the barred slit, the only window of my cell, is grey as well. The sun is a wan white disk and heavy clouds chase each other toward the horizon where they drown in iron-coloured waves. I spend my days watching their shadows wander over the wall behind my wooden pallet. Dragons, giant snakes, chimaeras; they rise and fall and rise again, ashen ghosts of beasts born of Fiendfyre.

Fiendfyre makes me think of Potter, and the promise he gave me before I was brought to Azkaban.

\-----

"Sorry, Malfoy," Potter had said from across the table in the interrogation room. "It doesn't look good for you. It's hard to believe you've developed Seer skills, you know?" He had drawn a deep breath and bent forward. "You didn't even attend Divination, right? Merlin, Malfoy! Don't look at me like that! I promise I'll get you out of there as soon as possible. Assuming you're telling the truth, which you are, yeah?" 

His green eyes burned into mine and I nodded.

"Then the evidence will prove it was somebody else, not you, who kidnapped the boy. He's fine, by the way. Was a bit hypothermic, but St Mungo's fixed that in no time, and the mind-healer says he's responding well to trauma therapy."

I nodded again. "That's good news. Thank you." 

He accepted with a nod. We nodded a lot because words didn't come easily between us. I had already told him everything about my visions and why I was in the house when his team arrived. He had explained why he had to send me to Azkaban until arraignment even though he believed my – admittedly strange – story. We were finished, but neither of us wanted to end the conversation.

The tension between us was back, this weird allure neither could deny because it had been there since he saved me from the Fiendfyre. It was heavy with nostalgia. What great friends we could have been if I had not been a Death Eater prince. If I had followed my heart and my instincts, instead of Father's words and pureblood traditions.

"Malfoy," Potter said, and when I stopped turning the leather band at my wrist around and around, he reached out for me. His hand closed around mine, warm and calloused, and his eyes were serious. "I'll leave order with the wardens to have an owl ready for you. Let me know immediately when you _see_ again." 

When, he had said. Not if. I smiled, ridiculously comforted by the knowledge that Potter believed me.

\-----

In the evening, the sun drowns in the sea and a water-born moon turns dull grey waves into churning mercury. The shadow-beasts on the wall disappear in the twilight, and I miss them. They are better company than the darkness seeping out of the corners and closing in on me. The nights are long in my cell, long and full of memories that claw at me. It's my third night here, and I dread it from the bottom of my heart. The handshake with Potter has kindled hope in me, but without my potions, pain and shame stomp it to death.

I don't sleep in Azkaban, and neither do I _see_.

\-----

"Draco Malfoy?" 

I sit up on my pallet with a start and meet the pair of blue eyes looking at me through the rectangular peephole in the door. It's not yet time for dinner, and I certainly don't have visitors.

"Yes?" I say and stand up. I do my best to hide the tension building inside me.

"Please open the door," the female voice says. The warden does as he is told and the door swings open to the inside. A woman enters my cell, and for a moment her pixie cut leads me astray. But the big blue eyes are unmistakably Luna Lovegood's. She carries a grey file under her arm.

"Thank you, please leave us alone now." She nods at the warden over her shoulder and waits until he has locked the door and his footsteps depart. Not only her haircut has changed. The robe she is wearing is dark blue, tailor-made and high quality, and the pearls dangling from her earlobes look real. Only the brooch glimmering beneath her collarbone – a silver thestral – tells me she is still, at least partly, her dreamy self.

When the corridor has grown quiet, she says, "Harry sent me. He usually never asks favours, and I wouldn't do this for anybody else. I've not forgotten my lovely stay at your house nor what a nice host your aunt was. I hope you appreciate his efforts and cooperate in any way you can." 

The stern tone is new.

"Of course, but Lovegood, what—"

"I'm the Auror department's specialist for the cooperation with Seers and Diviners—oh, in fact with everybody who might be able to help us solving cases by using spiritual or mystic powers, Arithmancy, Divination, prophecies. Did I forget something? Ah yes, runes. That's why I'm here." She sits down on the bed and waves for me to join her.

"You're here because of runes?" The pallet creaks, it's not made for the weight of two people.

Lovegood crosses her ankles, and opens the file. "No. I'm here because Harry says you _see_ things. Abducted children. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"It says in your file you regularly use Forgetfulness Potion and Draught of Peace because of sleeping problems." She looks up at me. "You don't take both at the same time, do you?"

A hint of worry resonates in her voice.

"I do. Forgetfulness Potion makes me forget, and Draught of Peace helps me to come down. Why?"

She shakes her head, but understanding grows on her face. "Then we have a problem. I did some research on your case before I came here. Though I've never met a Seer whose visions were caused by potions abuse myself, I remembered having read about one in the files of my predecessor." 

The hostility has left her voice.

"Wait." I sort my thoughts. "Are you saying _seeing_ is a side effect of the combination of the two potions? Why should that be a problem?"

"It is a side effect, not the problem. The problem is the other Seer died from the parallel use of the same two potions."

I shrug. "Coincidence? Professor Snape never mentioned possible risks of parallel use."

"No, it wasn't a coincidence. St Mungo's ran some tests on him because they thought a serial killer murdered the Seer because he was afraid of getting caught via his visions. They found out that with time, residues of the potions conglomerate in the addict's neural pathways, until ... Now, Malfoy, what do you think the final destination on that journey is? Where do you find eternal peace and oblivion?"

I don't want to believe her and I don't want to answer that question. "I'm fine," I say instead. It's not the whole truth, I'm far from being well. But I'm certain none of my problems has to do with potions. Quite the contrary. Potions are my cure!

"You're not. Remember the compulsory health check every new inmate has to take? I had a look at your tox screen results. The residue level of Forgetfulness Potion and Draught of Peace is already higher than the one of the Seer who died. Malfoy, the next sip could kill you. Do you understand?"

I do.

\-----

In the evening, another knock disrupts my observation of the cloud-shadows' roundelay. I listen carefully when the visitor's voice sends the warden away. It's Potter.

The flutter in my stomach is not caused by fear, but hope. Potter's voice makes my mouth curve up and has the power to transform my anxiety into anticipation.

"Malfoy, the Wizengamot dropped all charges against you. You're free." Potter holds the door open for me.

I jump off the bed. "What? Why?"

"Evidence eventually showed you're not the kidnapper."

Potter smiles, but something in his face makes me hesitate to join in. It's not the twilight of the approaching night that makes him appear drained. Sorrow is carved into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he avoids my gaze.

"What happened?" I ask. I thought it was a good sign I haven't had a vision since I came to Azkaban. Though Potter's pitiful state prompts the conclusion Lovegood's theory is correct: No potions, no visions. 

"Another child was taken while you were imprisoned. _Modus operandi_ is the same as before. As long as you haven't found a way to Disapparate from here," the small circle he draws with his hand includes all of Azkaban, "you can't be our man." 

The dark shadows beneath his eyes and the way he grasps his upper arms as if he'll fall apart if he doesn't, makes me dread the answer. Yet, I ask, "Who is it? Do you know the child?" 

Potter's face crumples. "They have James. My son."

My heart dives and my guts are a tight knot in my belly. A picture of the Dark Lord aiming at my parents in unspoken threat emerges from the abyss of my memories, accompanied by the taste of bile. "Oh no," I whisper.

But then, a silver lining appears around the clouds of desperation. This is my chance to make it up to Potter. I can help.

I need a vision. I need my potions.

\-----

The Leaky Cauldron is crowded tonight. My lungs burn from smoke dense enough to darken the already dim light. I thread my way through bodies damp from sweat and sloshed beer. No one as much as darts a sneaking look at me. Everybody's gaze is fixed on Potter. He just nods at Tom, who tilts his head towards a table in the corner where two guests are finishing their drinks.

"Two hot Butterbeers, Tom. Thank you." Potter drops a few Sickles and Knuts into Tom's gnarled hand. While the old man prepares our beers, the wizards get up and leave. We grab our steaming tankards and slide onto the still warm chairs.

" _Muffliato_ ," Potter murmurs, clutching his hot drink. He stares down at the foam spilling over, and lapses into silence.

He is such a passionate character, as long as I've known him his eyes have been flashing green sparks and he has risen to every challenge. No matter how desperate the situation, Potter, Weasley and Granger always found a way out. It's hard to believe that what the Dark Lord didn't achieve, a serial abductor has accomplished. The spark in Potter's eyes is reduced to a fading ember.

"Let me help," I say urgently. "You know I can."

He looks up at me. "Malfoy." 

So many emotions swing in the way he says my name. Strained hope, sadness. Exhaustion. And, most familiar, indignation. He's such a Gryffindor. But I won't give up so easily.

"I owe you. You won't even be in my debt afterwards, if that's the reason for your hesitation." 

"It's not. Luna keeps me updated. Your next sip could be your last. I can't save my son's life at the expense of yours." The green fire in his eyes flares up as he speaks. Thank goodness! He's not defeated, only exhausted to the bone.

"I thought you knew me well enough to know that," he adds, shaking his head.

Of course I do. I've known Potter since we were eleven years old and watched him grow into the role of Saviour. He stood up against the Dark Lord and sacrificed himself. He traded his life for everybody else's. It's time to follow his example. A Malfoy always pays his debts.

"Don't even think about it," Potter says.

I roll my eyes. Potter is the only person left in the world who means something to me. We were opponents for so long, and in our attempts to best the other we've observed each other's every move for years. On the Quidditch pitch, in class, wherever possible. I can read Potter like an open book. The only problem is, it's the same the other way round. I've to be as cunning as Salazar Slytherin himself if I want to help him without him noticing I'm up to something. Though, in his worn-out state and without his friends, he might not be as alert as he usually is.

Granger and Weasley. I take a swallow from my Butterbeer. Come to think about it, it is strange they aren't here to stand by Potter's side.

"Where are Weasley and Granger?"

Potter licks a bit of foam from his upper lip. "I'm suspended, but they are working their arses off to find James. The Minister told me to go home and have a lie-in, can you imagine? As if I'd be able to sleep when James is locked up in an ice-cold hut or a cage in a dungeon!" Rage flickers across his face. He groans with bitter agony, then takes another swallow and wipes his mouth with his hand.

"It drives me mad, even though I know they'll dig up anything we might have overlooked during investigations. Hermione is an Interrogation Specialist, she has this uncanny talent for making people remember even the smallest details. She's working with possible witnesses right now. If someone has seen something useful, she'll get it out of them, no matter how deeply it may be buried in their brains. Ron is checking all the information we have on wizarding woodworkers who got in trouble with the law in the past. All the hiding places were self-built from wood, you know. The hut, the cage…" 

Checking woodworkers is a good idea that might lead somewhere sometime, but I know a much faster way to find James. Granger is the ideal person to support me. She hates me, she won't hesitate when I offer to risk my life in order to find his son. I need her to watch me when I'll fall asleep after having taken my potions and to extract the memories of my vision from me as soon as it'll be over. Just in case I don't wake up to tell them myself.

"Take me to Granger," I say. "I've seen these places in my visions. Maybe she can make me remember some helpful details?"

"You're right. Let's go." Potter pushes back his chair and stands up. "I should've thought of that myself. Maybe the Minister is right and I'm not up to working on this case. All I can think of is James and how afraid he must be. He already has so much to digest, you know? He hasn't recovered yet from my divorce last year. And he's so terribly afraid of the dark, he only turned four in August!" 

So Potter's life hasn't been the treacle tart I imagined. Divorced, that changes a lot. Something raw and fragile stirs deep in my heart.

Though Potter appears much older tonight with his tired eyes and the lines of worry on his forehead, he only turned twenty-four in July. We were so young when we fought in the war six years ago. And we have lived through so much before and since, it's easy to forget we still are.

\-----

Granger's office is cosier than I expected. She's such a no-nonsense person that I imagined neat functionality instead of the warm atmosphere and the comfortable-looking chair she sits in. The walls are covered with shelves that are about to collapse from the amount of books and files crammed into them. There's also a cabinet, and on the opposite side of the room a sofa stands beneath an enchanted window. Stars glitter high in the night sky.

Granger takes over as soon as I explain my plan to her while Potter is visiting the loo.

"Harry, if you want to make yourself useful go help Ron with narrowing down the number of woodworkers we want to call in for interrogation. I'll see if I can wrestle something useful out of Malfoy's potions-soaked brain," she says when he returns.

"Okay." Potter throws me a look and one of his hands twitches as if he wants to reach out for me. A closeness has developed between us during the last few times we met, despite all the things that have kept us apart for so long. I wish I could put a name to what's connecting us so strongly. It's more than nostalgia for what might have been if we hadn't had to live up to the expectations of others. If we hadn't been raised to be enemies.

I meet his eyes and try to tell him without words that he is not my enemy anymore. He is the one who goaded me on through all the years at Hogwarts. Without Potter as my rival, without being spurred on by blazing hatred and jealousy, I wouldn't have made it through the times when the Dark Lord had declared the Manor his headquarters and my parents his hostages.

Regret resonates between us, and I swallow. My throat is tight and hurts, I'm sad as if something I always longed for is lost forever.

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of Potter's mouth, and then he turns around to go and see Weasley.

"Sign this, Malfoy." Granger holds up a quill and a form covered in small print, and points at a chair in front of her desk. "It says you're acting of your own free will and are aware of the risks you're taking. It absolves the Auror department of any responsibility."

I scribble my name in the designated space at the end of the form and shove it across the table. She files it away and stands up. "I'll get the potions. A few successful raids in the clubs off Knockturn, and the evidence room is better stocked than any of those drug dens. Make yourself comfortable, I'll be right back."

I lie down on the worn sofa and try to calm down by counting stars. But I'm too jittery at the prospect of making myself useful and help to rescue Potter's son. I'm brimming with anticipation, like right before a Quidditch match.

The door opens and Granger reappears.

"Here." She hands me two small bottles. "Drink." 

I check the labels. They read Forgetfulness Potion and Draught of Peace in a neat handwriting. Fine, then. I take a large swig of each.

Granger opens the cabinet and a Pensieve slides forward. Her eyes are soft when she returns. "Your sacrifice is highly appreciated. Fifty points to Slytherin."

The potions' effects set in, my agitation dissolves, and a minor miracle happens – Granger and I exchange a conspiratorial grin.

I close my eyes.

\-----

I'm awake and so ashamed I wish I had died of the potions as Lovegood had predicted. Granger's quill scratches across a piece of parchment. She is probably writing a report about the waste of time our experiment turned out to be. Fuck. I had been so sure about my visions.

A groan escapes me.

"Malfoy? Are you awake?" The leather of Granger's desk chair squeaks as she stands up.

I keep my eyes shut and breathe evenly, but she doesn't buy it. Her footsteps are already close and then the warmth of her hand seeps through my jumper. Her grip on my shoulder is firm, but gentle.

"Malfoy?" Her voice lacks the malice I expected.

I pretend to wake up, flutter my eyes open and stretch and yawn. "Granger," I say and sit up, squinting against the blue skies the enchanted window presents. I'm not in the mood for sunshine; thunderclouds and rain would be more to my taste. "No visions. I'm so sorry." 

I get up and head for the door. I don't dare to look her in the eyes, not after I’ve shattered the high hopes I sparked yesterday. She's right to hate me – I'm good for nothing, except empty promises. I stop with my hand on the knob. "Tell Potter I tried, will you?" 

"Malfoy, wait—"

I don't.

\-----

I've resumed my wanderings around the house. It's too big, yet not big enough for me to escape my past. I'm lonely, though my sore conscience never leaves me alone. The silence is deafening, only interrupted by the echo of my footsteps.

Winter is upon the land with full force. I wear my old cloak day and night, but never get warm. Frosty breezes whistle through the house and around the corners of the corridors, whirling up dust and memories. Mounds of dead leaves flutter up and darken the windows like swarms of giant moths.

I wait for something to happen. My days are fusions of hollowness and anxious boredom, but my nights – oh, my nights are dark, and not only because of lack of sunlight. Without my potions, I'm at the mercy of my conscience.

In the evenings, glowing clouds burn the sky to ashes. Darkness follows in their wake and takes over the horizon. It's nothing compared to the inferno roaring in my mind. My past is an inferius, and not even the Fiendfyre of remorse has the power to kill it.

In all the chaos, I focus on Potter. I let him down in his darkest hour, but somewhere out there, he's hunting down his son's murderer. If he can survive such a stroke of fate, I won't surrender to the shadows either.

\-----

Father's study is a mess. Slivers of glass have scattered across the floor, only a few remaining shards stick out of the window frame. Long, thin icicles adorn the chandelier, filling the gaps where crystals have fallen off, and a thin layer of white frost turns the room into a bizarre winter wonderland. I duck when an owl swerves through the fanged window. It lands on the desk.

My heartbeat accelerates – I haven't received a letter in years. 

"Hey, little friend," I say. The owl hops toward me. Its footprints, disfigured stars in the hoarfrost, are quickly wiped out by a large roll of parchment attached to one of its legs.

"Sorry, I don't have treats for you." I untangle the ribbon and the white-brown bird takes wing as soon as I step back.

Fingers stiff from the cold I unroll the letter and skim the text. It's an official summons, written by auto quill and therefore valid without a signature. My stomach turns – Potter wants revenge. I let him down the one time my help would have been vital, and therefore he wants me to atone in Azkaban.

I stare out of the window, at the remains of what had once been Mother's cherished garden. The maze, fragmentary circles of black bushes half-covered in snow and frost, looks like an ancient stone circle waiting for a blood sacrifice, and the leafless trees reach for the clouds to pluck them from the sky with distorted fingers.

The chandeliers sway in the wind and the jingle of crystals sends a shiver across my skin. I won't miss this place. Too many ghosts live here, too many echos. Even if I did, I'd still spend the rest of my days in Azkaban. I owe Potter a life, and a Malfoy always pays his debts.

\-----

Five days later, I'm escorted to Potter's office by a young Auror. He nearly trips over his own feet from excitement, but his politeness doesn't gloss over I'm not allowed around the Auror department on my own. It's like a glimpse into our years at Hogwarts, when Potter watched my every step with distrust. 

"So you're Draco Malfoy? _The_ Draco Malfoy?" My watchdog all but hyperventilates and keeps staring at me in … I don't know. It could be awe as well as horror; his eyes are wide and he's a bundle of nerves. Maybe I could tell if I weren't so anxious myself. I don't care about returning to Azkaban too much, but I dread the moment when I'll have to look into Potter's eyes.

The Auror stops at the end of a corridor and points at the last door. "Head Auror Potter's office. Mr Malfoy, I've heard so much about you, I can't believe I met you in person! We're all glad you finally get what you deserve." 

I frown at his last remark. He spins on his heel and rushes back to where he came from.

I lift my hand to knock on the door, but hesitate. The polished wood is smooth under my knuckles. The last time Potter and I talked, we were hovering on the brink of something deeper and more meaningful than friendship. A faint ripple of laughter breezes over my skin, lush green, and warm like sunlight. I hoped we'd jump, knowing Potter would've caught me. Now the chance is gone, I've lost him forever.

No apology in the world can undo what happened.

\-----

Red flashes shoot across the dark room, explosive sounds shake the ground. I dodge and fumble for my wand. I've no idea what's going on. Anything is possible, from Potter, Weasley and Granger trying to kill me with curses to Death Eater sympathisers trying to spare me a lifetime in Azkaban.

Then the flashes are replaced by sparks and people clap and cheer.

"Malfoy? Are you okay?" Potter's voice asks.

A good question. When I don't answer immediately, Granger says, "I told you a surprise party was a bad idea. It's too much for him. He's a Seer, a sensitive soul. Good grief, will someone take the blanket off the window already?" 

I squint against the sunlight suddenly gilding the room.

"Here, Malfoy. Have a glass of bubbly." Potter closes my fingers around the fragile stem of a champagne flute. "I want to introduce you to someone. James," he calls, and a little boy wriggles out of Ginevra Weasley's arms. She smiles, but doesn't come over.

James doesn't bother with such restraint. The sun weaves coppery threads through his dark hair as he runs towards his father, and his brown eyes shine. Potter catches him and swings him around. From the safety of Potter's arm, James looks at me curiously.

"You're Malfoy?" he asks, slightly disappointed. "I thought you'd be bigger. And stronger!" 

The room bursts into laughter, and Potter has the grace to blush. "It's _Mr_ Malfoy, James," he says. "And he's very good-looking the way he is."

"It's fine. I'm Malfoy to everybody." I smile at James and put out a hand that he shakes with surprising strength.

"Thank you, Malfoy. 'Mione says you told her where the bad man was hiding me. How did you do that?"

"James," I say and look at him, "I think that's something _'Mione_ must explain to all of us." I spot Granger at the other side of the room. She pours champagne, casting the Refilling Charm on the bottle afresh every few glasses. 

Potter follows my gaze. "Budget cuts."

He lifts his glass. "Hermione," he calls, "it's time to finally clear that mystery up! But first, a toast to Draco Malfoy, the Seer who saved my son and whose help was invaluable to our team. Thanks to him, we found and arrested the _bad man_ , as James here put it so splendidly." 

Cheers and laughter erupt, glasses are raised in my direction, and wherever I look, a friendly face smiles back at me.

"James."

"Yeah?" Alert intelligence glints in the child's eyes that are framed by thick black lashes just like his father's. I swallow hard. He is such a sweet and bright little boy, Potter is lucky to have him. Hopefully James will never find out how close he was to dying.

"Pinch me." 

He does.

"Ouch!" I forgot about his strength.

"You're not dreaming," he says with a satisfied nod.

Champagne fizzes on my tongue and tingles down my throat. Laughter bubbles up my chest and James joins in. His giggle is the most wonderful sound in the world, a lullaby to my memories. A weight lifts off my shoulders.

I'm light and buoyant like the wind sweeping through the trees conjured by the enchanted window. Some last orange and golden leaves spin around in a cheerful ring-a-ring-of-roses. They rise and fall, and rise again, in harmony with the melody of James' laughter. I want to run outside and dance along.

"Malfoy? James?" 

Potter's green gaze is warm and full of something else I can't decipher.

"Yes, Dad?" James asks. Potter blinks and brushes a kiss against James' temple.

"Sorry to interrupt you, but Hermione has something to tell us, I think?" Potter puts James back on his feet and lets his hands rest on the boy's shoulders.

Granger raises her voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. I hope the Refilling Charms last for a little while longer because I have some announcements to make that'll require more toasts. First of all, in the name of the whole Auror department, I'd like to thank Mr Draco Malfoy for his vital help in finding and arresting the serial kidnapper who kept us all in suspense for the last half year." 

Her eyes find me and she winks. I agonise over what I might have done to deserve such high praise, but have no idea. If this is a scheme to take revenge on me, I don't get it.

"For reasons I'll explain later I was required to maintain total secrecy about the events taking place that night. Mr Malfoy, I couldn't share classified information with you earlier and I apologise for any inconvenience that may have caused. Allow me to fill you - and everybody else - in now." 

I nod, bursting with curiosity. The Granger I remember from our school years was always eager to blurt out any piece of new knowledge, being required to hold her tongue must have been hard for her.

"I can't tell you how surprised I was when Mr Malfoy appeared in my office that night and offered to help. He had just overcome a PTSD-connected addiction to a combination of potions which, in rare cases, can induce irreversible changes in the brain structure and turn the addict into a Seer. But that's only one side of the coin. When taken regularly, residues of the potions conglomerate in the addict's neural pathways and eventually may lead to cerebral death. He knew this could happen to him and was still willing to ingest the potions once again. He didn't hesitate to risk his life for the chance to have a vision revealing James' whereabouts – something that was by no means certain. Therefore he has earned our deepest respect!"

Everybody's eyes are on me. After years of avoiding any attention and going outside only in disguise, it's more than unsettling. I focus on Granger, still waiting for the catch - nothing good ever comes without one. 

"However," she continues, "without his knowledge I had given him plain water in which I had dissolved some Bertie Bott's Beans, simulating both the potions’ colours and taste, and hoped he wouldn't notice the difference. Without the potions suppressing Mr Malfoy's regular brain functions during sleep, he processed the vision as if it were a dream. That's why you don't remember having a vision, Mr Malfoy." She grins at me and lifts one eyebrow.

I clench my fists - what a cunning beast she is, letting me stew in the belief of being a big failure and good-for-nothing, and also in the fear of Potter's revenge. But the hot flare of instant rage is already dying away. These are great news – I helped finding James, I really did! I smile back at Granger, and lift my left eyebrow as if I knew all along. She just winks and speaks on.

"I was able to extract Mr Malfoy's vision from his brain, view it in a Pensieve and not an hour later James was found and freed." She took a deep breath. ”Now, some of you may think Mr Malfoy never was in danger because he was given a placebo. However, he _didn’t know_. As far as he was aware, he very definitely was risking his mental and physical health, if not his very life, for a little boy -- and such bravery and willingness to sacrifice more than deserves our gratitude and recognition.”

She smiles and gestures toward me. "Ladies and gentlemen, Draco Malfoy!" 

Applause erupts across the room, and James jumps up and down and whoops. Then he looks up at me and takes my hand. His little face grows serious. "Thank you, Malfoy." 

Hoping Potter doesn't mind, I crouch and hug James. When I release him from my embrace and stand up, we smile at each other, and my heart jumps as happily as he does.

James lifts our joined hands and a wave of sympathy breaks over me. Everybody wants to shake my hand, pat my back or slap my shoulder. I'm too overwhelmed to do much more than blush and smile. It takes about half an hour until things calm down a bit and Granger continues her speech.

"And now to the reasons for the belated acknowledgement. Since I started my career as an Interrogation Specialist, I've been working on a spell that will catapult us into the next era of combating crime. Besides enabling me to extract a copy of Mr Malfoy's vision it also allowed me to give him instructions and ask questions. That way, I helped him to actively explore his vision to its maximum extent and gather every piece of information it contained. And because I could see what he _saw_ in my Pensieve, I was then able to pass on the information to an Auror team on standby via Patronus message without loss of time. The smooth operation leading to James Potter's rescue is the best proof of the immense potential of the Shared Vision Spell."

First claps ring out, but Granger stops it by raising her hand. "Some last few words, if you’ll allow."

Silence falls.

"Today all the paperwork was finally completed and I received the patent from Minister Shacklebolt, Brain Room Director Cramer, and the wizarding patent office." 

She unfurls a parchment roll with both hands for everybody to see. _Patent_ is written at the top. Shacklebolt and another man – Cramer, I suppose – bow and accept the smattering of applause following the announcement.

"Though the tests, in cooperation with my colleagues in the Brain Room, have proved the spell's efficiency and harmlessness in use weeks ago, I was required to maintain total silence as long as the patent was still pending. Hence all the secrecy."

People clap frantically, and Granger bows. "Thank you very much." 

She basks in the cheers for a moment longer, then summons another roll of parchment from Potter's desk. Not even trying to yell over the noise, she mouths, "Harry, you want to do this?" 

Potter nods in response. A flick of his wand, and the parchment flies into his hand. All over sudden my palms are clammy and my heart sinks to my boots.

"Mal—Mr Malfoy." Potter smirks at me, but continues as if the lapse hasn't happened. "The Auror department offers you the position of a Consultant Seer. We'd consider ourselves honoured if you sign your contract and start your excellent work on Monday."

He holds out the parchment for me to take it. I'm flabbergasted. Bloody hell, the Ministry is giving me a job! 

James takes matters in hand. "Say yes, Malfoy," he whispers loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Dad would like that a lot."

Potter's green eyes sparkle, and sunlight draws golden freckles on his face.

"Oh, I see. In that case – yes."

\-----


End file.
